


Some Great Reward

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Injections, M/M, Medical Procedures, Needles, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 11:30:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17344472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: Little pricks.





	Some Great Reward

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story is taken from the Depeche Mode album of the same name.  
> This story takes place in season five of Gotham, incorporating events up to "Year Zero", namely Jim shooting Oswald in the knee of his bad leg.  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. This story and the work it's based on are fiction. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

The most important thing to remember:  
Don’t hesitate.  
It’s unpleasant, and Penn doesn’t want to be doing it, but any hesitation on Penn’s end will mean pain for Oswald. He learned this the hard way. How could he have known? He’d never had reason to inject someone before.  
“Stop poking me, and stick it in!” Oswald shouted. Irritated, he moved, the suggestion of stamping his foot, and Penn was glad, then, that he had hesitated. If he hadn’t, he could have gotten Oswald’s hipbone, instead.  
“Are you sure?”  
“Yes!”  
He breathed in deeply, and leaned forward. He placed his hand on Oswald’s hip. He chose a spot as he’d watched the doctor do before, and focused on it. He made himself pretend that he was using the point of a pencil to pierce plastic wrap. Oswald’s body tensed visibly. “Press the plunger,” Oswald said, his teeth clenched.  
That had to be done a little at a time, so it was easier. There was a technique to removing the needle. This, at least, was something to concentrate on. Oswald made a sound like a slowly deflating balloon.  
“How much longer does the doctor say that you have to continue this course of treatment?” There was another syringe on the tray on the table next to him. Penn eyed it, frowning.  
“The rest of the week, for the antibiotics.”  
“And the other medication?”  
“Shut up, and stick me. Hurry up.” Oswald closed his eyes. A muscle in his jaw fluttered.  
“Yes. Of course.”  
If he’d been clumsy with the antibiotic, it would have been unfortunate, but if he made a mistake with this, it would be much worse. The other day, the doctor made a mistake with the placement of the shot, and the drug hadn’t given the needed relief. Oswald had slapped the doctor’s face. Penn had been sufficiently quick to snatch the scissors off of the table before Oswald saw them. They’d had to wait another four hours to try another injection, because of the risk of overdose. Penn had never seen Oswald actually weep before. The needlemarks were no help, because continuing to inject Oswald in precisely the same places without allowing them to heal could cause more problems. Penn took a deep breath.  
It was over.  
Oh, it was over.  
He helped Oswald to stand up straight, to pull his pants back up, rearrange his clothing. He allowed himself to do up Oswald’s pants. If Oswald thought anything about this, he said nothing, breathing deeply, his eyes closed. He helped Oswald sit. It was over. For four hours.  
It has gotten easier. Penn has to admit that. The course of antibiotics ended. The doctor found no evidence of continued infection. Oswald began moving around more. Sitting is sometimes as uncomfortable for him as standing, but pacing can bring some relief. There are cushions on all of his chairs. Sleeping is most difficult, because of the need to keep his leg elevated. He can’t sleep on his side, as he’d prefer to. He’s always been complicated, but these are greater complications than Penn could have imagined. It’s frightening to Penn. But it’s thrilling. But it’s comforting. It comes in waves. First, the fear, then the thrill, once he realizes that he’s safe, then relief, when realizes that he’s sufficiently safe that he can do his job. There’s nothing more pleasurable than the action of doing something correctly.  
The needle slips into Oswald’s flesh. They’d discussed using the veins in his arms or hands, but the doctor pronounced them ‘bad’. Bad veins. ‘A hard stick,’ the doctor said, and as if to prove it, volunteered to give Oswald his first shot in his arm. Twenty minutes later, the doctor still hadn’t seen the telltale blood enter the chamber of the syringe, the ‘flash’, and Oswald was screaming at him to do whatever he wanted.  
Since the doctor made the mistake, Penn has been injecting Oswald. He can’t imagine that he’s much of an improvement. But Oswald said,  
“I like the way you touch me.”  
It might have been a dream. He couldn’t have actually said it.  
His voice was soft. His eyes were slipping closed. He was smiling faintly. Penn walked him to the divan, covered him with a blanket, and left him alone for the required half an hour. When he’d rested, Penn helped him to stand and to walk over to his desk. It was business for two and a half hours, Oswald seeming to gradually come into focus like a picture that could be adjusted. The final hour, Penn stayed close to Oswald as Oswald paced around the room, for exercise, and in order to waste time until the next shot.  
Oswald has three moods.  
Two are impossible.  
No one can be allowed to see them but Penn, the doctor, and the guards Oswald trusts to stay in the room.  
Too much pain makes him unable to think. He becomes unreasonable. He’s not exactly angry, because that would require a cause. He rages. He can become violent. One of the guards left the room with what turned out to be a fractured cheekbone. Penn saw to it that the man be given extra rations and a bottle of whiskey. One of the real ones. It probably hadn’t been necessary, but sometimes, it feels good to be kind when it’s unnecessary. Especially when it’s unnecessary.  
Relief from pain also makes him unable to think. He’s gentle and somnolent, and once offered to give Penn one of his cars. He asked Penn to remind him about it, later, as his eyes fell closed and his mouth fell open. It was terrifying.  
“Hold my hand,” he says. The order is more compelling, for being delivered in such a soft voice. A seeking edge to his voice, Oswald’s eyelids come down.  
Penn takes his hand. There’s no chair for him, so he crouches next to the divan.  
“You don’t speak German, do you?”  
“I’m afraid not. I could learn, if it’s required. Do you anticipate dealing with foreign governments?”  
Oswald smiles a little. “That’s very funny,” he says, and is then silent for the next thirty minutes.  
Slowly, he comes back to himself. Penn helps him up, helps him on with his jacket. Then, it’s almost like it used to be. Penn stands at the side of Oswald’s chair, speaking when it’s required; otherwise, simply watching. He sometimes wonders what his job actually is. There’s no real accounting to be done anymore. He takes Edward for walks. He makes Oswald’s tea, because Oswald insists that Penn, alone, can make it correctly, though there’s no special trick that Penn can discern. He runs errands, sometimes. On the condition that he won’t be gone for longer than three hours. His life, it seems, is in a constant state of winding down and frantic resetting.

After a month, the frequency of the shots changes. It is now every six hours. The doctor got a supply of pills from who knows where, and Oswald may take them if he experiences pain between shots.  
“Be careful with these,” the doctor says.  
“Of course,” Oswald replies with a smile. “Ass,” he says, as soon as the doctor’s left the room and closed to door behind himself.  
Penn says nothing. He’d been hoping that Oswald would make up with the doctor so that Penn could stop administering Oswald’s injections. His hand is steadier, now, but it never stops being unnerving. It’s his job to clean the syringes, as well, as there are so few of them. The doctor showed Penn how to do it, using a machine that looks like a small oven.  
“Shouldn’t you do this?” Penn asked, “I’m not a doctor.”  
“You don’t have to be a doctor to do this,”he balked. “Anyway, your boss doesn’t want me touching his works anymore.”  
“Oh,” Penn said, “I didn’t know.” He’d imagined, but that isn’t the same as knowing.  
“It’s fine with me!” the doctor said with a smile. “Less of a chance of fucking up and ending up dead.”  
Penn wanted to say that he’d speak to Oswald, but the doctor truly didn’t seem to care, and it was really for Penn’s sake, anyway. Everyday, he feels further and further from where he started out, and where he intended to go. How did this happen?  
He begins to think that there was a catastrophe of which he wasn’t informed. Little by little, Penn is given a great volume and more diverse assortment of responsibilities. Yet, he notices no pruning away of the staff. They’re merely rearranged, shuffled like cards. There’s no more sense of fear or panic than usual. It’s very strange.  
“I fired my old dresser,” Oswald says. Penn gave him his shot an hour ago, so he’s voluble but sharp.  
“I didn’t know you had a dresser.”  
“A young lady. I think it made her nervous, so I had her sent someplace else. She’s learning to be a mechanic, or something. Of course, I would have never hurt her, but I had to think of her peace of mind. I want you to do it.”  
“Me?”  
“Unless you’re also afraid that I’m going to pounce on you some morning.”  
Penn blinks.  
“That was a joke, Mr. Penn. You can pull your eyebrows down from the ceiling.”  
“I know that. I’m just surprised. My background is in accounting, bookkeeping.”  
“The books keep themselves around here,” Oswald says. “There isn’t much call for creative accounting anymore.” Does he sound sad, saying it? Penn hopes that the he does. It’s how Penn feels, hearing it.  
It’s less a matter of actually physically dressing Oswald than it is of laying out his clothes; making sure that his socks match, that nothing clashes. He keeps Penn in the room while he dresses. Sometimes, he talks to Penn. Sometimes, he’s silent. When he’s silent, Penn tells himself that he’s deep in thought, so that he won’t notice when Penn watches him. He’s always been striking. It’s difficult not to want to look. Penn can remember the first time he saw Oswald. It must have been ten years earlier. He was new, or almost new, at the Fish Bone, working in the coatroom. He took Don Falcone’s coat, almost seeming to bend under the weight. He handed Don Falcone his ticket. He held out his hands for Penn’s coat. Penn was startled. Oswald couldn’t have been older than twenty. Penn still isn’t sure of his age. Official records show discrepancies, may have been altered. In those days, he looked far too young for his sharp features, his pallor, the hardness of his gaze.  
Older, he might be slightly less shocking, but no less dramatic. Even naked, he seems-- oh, not dangerous. Don’t be stupid. Naked, he’s as vulnerable as anyone else. Penn wants to cover his skin, still too pale, with his hands. The scars on Oswald’s body stand out, mauve or alabaster. The needlemarks on his hips have faded in some places; in others, they remain, points of garnet. The more wounded a part of Oswald’s body, the more attracted Penn is to it. At night, he thinks about this. He’s attracted to Oswald in the normal ways, but the ways that aren’t normal are the ones that excite him the most. He thinks about kissing the scar on Oswald’s knee. It would be too sensitive to touch with his hands, but if he were gentle, he might kiss it without hurting Oswald.  
He has to be careful, now.  
He always had something to hide. Now, he knows he does.  
Every time he gets close to Oswald, fear pricks at him. He’s obliged to touch Oswald as a lover would, constantly, as part of his workday. He smooths his hand over Oswald’s bare hip to find a place to inject him. He sometimes puts his hands on Oswald’s shoulders and waist to steady him. He touches Oswald’s clothes, his underclothes.  
He takes the shirt from the hanger. He closes his eyes, feels himself smile slightly as he raises it to his nose. The scent is clean linen, but he imagines that there’s something of Oswald that never washes off. He shakes it out, and turns around. In mirror to the side, he sees Oswald.  
Oswald is looking right at him.

Luckily, it was only Oswald’s shirt.

Nothing changes, so Penn- he doesn’t think that he’s safe, but he thinks he might be safe enough. When punishment comes, it probably won’t be of the permanent kind. Penn thinks of the guard with the broken face. In the old days, they used to brand people for offenses against the crown. Perhaps, for Penn, it will be a letter ‘O’.  
It’s very late. He wants to sleep.  
His time isn’t his own.  
Oswald wants to see Penn in his bedroom. The scenario is so heavy with significance that Penn is too weighted down by it to remember to feel anxious.  
Yet-  
He’s chilled when Oswald excuses the guards.  
There’s no preamble.  
“I see the way you look at me,” Oswald says. It’s not an accusation, but it is a challenge. To deny it would certainly mean Penn’s doom.  
Perhaps stupidly, he’s not even ashamed of the truth. Yet, he feels himself pale. “I intend no disrespect. Nor do I presume-”  
“Shut up.”  
Penn bites his lip, looks at the floor.  
“I didn’t mean it that way. Just… don’t apologize to me. I know what you meant, and what you think.”  
“All right.”  
“I want you to tell me things.”  
“What kind of things?”  
“I want you to tell me things that you want to do, and if I agree, we can do them.”  
“Sexually, you mean.”  
“Yes, Mr. Penn. That’s what I mean.”  
“I only want you to call me that. Never by my first name.”  
“I’m not even sure I remember it. What is it?”  
“Arthur.”  
Oswald shakes his head. “I don’t think I knew it. You were introduced to me as Mr. Penn. You signed your own paychecks… Fine. You’ll stay Mr. Penn.”  
Now, for some reason, he feels like he can finally breathe. “Thank you.”  
“What else?”  
He wrings his hands. He knows that he should make up a lie, but, somehow, that would be an insult to Oswald. He simply says, “You won’t like it.”  
“How disgusting could it possibly be?”  
“I want to kiss the scar on your knee.”  
Oswald frowns. “Why?”  
“Because it’s yours.”  
The frown deepens as Oswald colors. “If this is some sort of joke, I’ll garrote you.”  
“It isn’t.”  
Still frowning, Oswald undoes his pants, pulls them down. “Do it, then.”  
“Would you not be more comfortable sitting down?”  
“You’re stalling. Do it. If it’s what you want.”  
Gingerly, he kneels. His bones still make an undignified sound. He gently turns Oswald’s right leg slightly. The wound has closed, the stitches have long since been removed. The scar left behind is both raised and depressed; an indentation enclosed in puckered brackets, the white pinpoints left by the stitches on either side. Penn brushes his lips against it. It’s surprisingly soft; more like a cushion than what he’d imagined, something carved of ivory. He smooths his hand over Oswald’s knee, and holds his mouth against the scar. He kisses it again, lets himself touch his tongue to it, slip down into the center. Even there, the skin feels velvety, tender; too new. Again. Dry and soft. He lets himself run his mouth up the interior curve of Oswald’s thigh, just below his underclothes. He hears Oswald exhale as though surprised. He brings his mouth back down to the scar, continues kissing it.  
“Stop doing that,” Oswald whispers.  
He sits back on his knees. His entire body aches, with use or with arousal. “What do you want me to do?” He looks up at Oswald. That Oswald’s expression betrays no anger signals great danger. The possible fates that could await Penn blast him with horror. He feels his heartbeat throughout his entire body. The more horrifying the possibility, the more it excites him. As long as Oswald is the one who does it to him. The only thing he doesn’t want, absolutely cannot abide, is separation. He’ll beg, if it’s required.  
Oswald laughs, from the back of his throat. “It’s for you. It has nothing to do with me. Tell me what you want.” If he speaks slowly, softly, that’s when the danger is greatest.  
It couldn’t be a lie. If it ends in Penn’s death, to be killed for a lie would be the only humiliation. “I’d like to pleasure you orally.”  
Oswald laughs again. “I was expecting something stranger than that.”  
“If it’s not what you want-”  
“Hush,” Oswald says. He pulls up his pants, holds them closed as he walks to the bed. He pulls them down again, sits on the bed, unbuttons his underclothes. “Come here,” he says. He says it softly, but not unkindly, Penn thinks.  
He gets up. He walks to Oswald. He kneels again. Exposed but obscured, Oswald waits for him, his hands at his sides. It’s then almost a matter of organizing. Softly, he asks Oswald to move his hips forward slightly. He undoes another button. He arranges. He handles. He touches Oswald for a little while, simply because he wants to. Kisses the same place on Oswald’s thigh.  
“Just get on with it,” Oswald says. It’s the voice that demands the injections.  
He closes his eyes against the sound he makes with Oswald in his mouth. A muffled sigh. Oswald might think it’s a protestation. He might be sensitive about things like that. Penn has to be careful. He moves carefully, and slowly; now very aware of his own teeth. It probably shouldn’t be so, but the fear makes it better. It feels more immediate. Penn feels completely there, in a way he rarely does. Even the pain in his knees, the developing pain in his jaw are pleasant. As soon as he’s excused, he’s going to see to himself. Assuming that he doesn’t climax involuntarily. That’s a more attractive prospect. On his knees, in front of Oswald, Oswald’s cock in his mouth. He’s very aware of himself. All of himself.  
“Stop.”  
It takes him a moment to register what’s happened. He moves away, stumbling back a little, his hand at his mouth. “What-” he begins.  
“I wanted to see how far you’d go,” Oswald says, covering himself, fussing with his clothing, his gaze turned downward, his face both sharp and round in profile.  
“But why?” Penn says, getting up. Oswald lets Penn straighten his clothing. It feels good to be allowed to do that.  
“That’s a silly question,” Oswald says.  
“I wasn’t lying to you.”  
“Well, excuse my paranoia, but it’s not wholly unjustified.”  
“Yes, I see. I understand.”  
“I know you weren’t lying.”  
“Thank you.”  
“The fact is, though, you could have been down there all night, and it wouldn’t have done much good.” He draws his mouth in tightly. “It’s a side effect of the medication. Oh, by the way, call that idiot doctor, and tell him to get me a laxative.”  
“Would you like me to do it now, or tomorrow?”  
“Tomorrow. He’s going to insist on examining me, and I don’t want to look at him right now.”  
“Yes. I think it must be very late, anyway.”  
“Undress me. Please. I want to go to sleep.”  
“It’s been a long day. You must be tired.” This is something to concentrate on. Slowly, it takes the agitation out of Penn, replaces it with the certainty of motion, the satisfaction of doing something correctly. “Where are your pajamas?” he asks.  
“I’m going to sleep in the nude.”  
“Won’t you be cold? It’s not good for you to be cold when you’re still healing.”  
“You’re going to keep me warm.”  
“Oh.”  
“Unless you’d rather not.”  
“No, no, not in the slightest. You just took me by surprise.”  
“You can keep your clothes on if you want to.”  
“I’ll keep something on, in case you need to do something in the middle of the night. It’ll be easier for me to get dressed.”  
“That’s fine,” Oswald says, and turns to get into bed.  
“May I look at you for a moment?”  
“I don’t like being stared at.”  
“No, I suppose that you wouldn’t.”  
Oswald rolls his eyes. “From the front, or from behind?”  
“I beg- Oh, which side of you do I want to look at. Front, then back.”  
“You can check the needlemarks while you’re at it.”  
Penn moves closer to him. “Are any of them bothering you? Have you noticed any bruising?”  
“This one.” Oswald pokes his finger into a spot on his left hip. Penn bends down to look. There isn’t even a mark. Penn looks up at Oswald. “Kiss me there,” Oswald says. The skin is smooth and soft. Penn feels himself blush.  
They get into bed. The sheets are soft and cool, the gently disquieting sensation of luxury that was once totally ordinary. Penn takes off his glasses, and sets them on the bedside table, within reach. Oswald turns off the light.  
“Good night,” Penn says.  
“You can kiss me if you want to.”  
“Yes. I do.”  
He doesn’t know what to expect, so he moves cautiously. Oswald makes a disgusted sound, pulls him closer, kisses him hard, but not without affection.  
“If you’re going to do it, really do it, Mr. Penn.”  
Penn does. Really do it. He holds Oswald against him, feels the shape and warmth of his body. Oswald’s skin is soft. His mouth is hot. He lets himself be explored. Because Oswald seems to be in the mood to allow liberties, Penn takes them. Whatever lack of sensation Oswald might experience, he seems to enjoy some of it. The more he responds, the more Penn wants of him. He mouths Oswald’s throat, his shoulder, pokes his nose into Oswald’s underarm. This gets him a laugh, but no commentary. Or, if there is, Penn kisses it away.  
Oswald’s hand is between his legs.  
“It’s the least I can do,” Oswald says, sounding something between sheepish and put-out.  
“If you don’t-”  
“Shut up.” He sighs. “I mean, if it’s what you want, don’t pretend that it isn’t. Please.”  
“It is what I want.”  
“Good. You can show me what to do. How you want me to do it.”  
“How are you most comfortable?”  
“On my back.”  
“Lie back, then.” He’s thankful for the darkness. It’s silly, and pretty pointless to be embarrassed, now, but he’s still relieved that he can’t be seen. He takes off his underwear, positions himself half on, half off Oswald, leaning back. He takes Oswald’s hand, moves it up, over his thigh, his hip. He waits for Oswald to go further on his own, but he doesn’t. So, Penn must direct him. He guides Oswald’s hand as Oswald touches him. Penn wants it slowly. The more uncomfortable it is to hold the position, the more slowly he wants it to go. It occurs to him that he might say something, but he doesn’t want to. He only wants to hear his own breathing, steadily louder and more labored, the other sounds he makes, the far-away creak of the bed. Somehow, in the dark, he reaches out and finds Oswald’s other hand, places it on his hip. When he takes his hand away, Oswald caresses him. Down his thigh, up his hip again, up his belly, beneath his undershirt. Oswald’s hands are usually cold, but they’re warm, now. He takes away the hand directing Oswald. He wants to see what will happen. Oswald keeps going. A little bit faster, now. A little bit rougher. Penn hears himself gasp.  
Of all of the possibilities he’d considered, he hadn’t imagined this. And it’s the best one. He holds Oswald’s hand on his hip as he comes. Oswald’s knuckles lock into his.  
He has to be careful in the dark. It takes him a long time to lie down flat. When he does, Oswald pulls the sheets over them. The sheets. Where did-  
“Would you like me to strip the bed tomorrow morning?” he asks.  
“What? Oh, don’t bother me about that, now.”  
“I’ll wait for you to tell me what you want me to do.”  
“Fine.” Oswald yawns. “Let me sleep.” He changes his position slightly, wraps his arms around Penn. Turning onto his side, Penn does the same. Penn feels relief, fatigue, sink into his body. He’s sinking. He’s drifting lower and lower down, toward the bottom of the sea.  
Now you may rest.


End file.
